


Game Plan

by Ponderosa (ponderosa121)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM Scene, Bad Decisions, Bisexual Male Character, Bruises, Canon Character of Color, Cock Slut, Cock Worship, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Father Figures, First Time, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Mild Painplay, Older Man/Younger Man, POV Dominant Character, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Oral Sex, Safer Sex, Topping, questionable life choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21540409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: Gil becomes increasingly unsure Malcolm gets anything he needs. The kid hardly eats, hardly sleeps, and the visits to his father make him jittery and unstable in ways that gnaw at Gil like a junkyard dog going at a bone. He never should’ve involved Malcolm in all this. Then again, isn’t it better to be able to keep an eye on him?Today’s problem is he’d needed to haul Malcolm back by the scruff of the neck when he got too close to a suspect, and just like that time when he’d watched Malcolm get thrown to the mat, there’s no doubt the kid got off on it, just a little. Maybe not even consciously.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 61
Kudos: 293





	Game Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Niki for beta'ing this completely shameless Daddy porn. This is set following episode 8 and has mentions/discussion of age play but no actual DD/lb and is more your classic top!Daddy/bottom vibe. If there's anything else I ought to tag or warn for, please let me know.

_“Jung would’ve called me a masochist…”_

Gil can’t get it out of his head, Malcolm saying that to the suspect who’d thrown him to the floor and nearly dislocated his shoulder.

He’s never thought about the kid that way before. Wouldn’t have labeled him as anything other than reckless. As a teenager, Malcolm’s self-destruction had shown itself in screaming matches with his mother and sulking in the passenger seat of Gil’s car in the late of the night. Malcolm had made plenty of rash and stupid decisions, but he’d ultimately been so focused on his studies that by the time he went off to college, recreational drugs and recreational sex still seemed like afterthoughts.

The next time Gil spots it--the look in Malcolm’s eye when he’s deliberately pushing buttons and inviting a perp to take a swing at him--it’s Dani who calls him out on his tactics. Malcolm doesn’t deny it, just shrugs and quips that it worked to get them what they needed, didn’t it. That’s not the point, and Malcolm can’t seem to see it, so at the end of a very long day, Gil offers him a ride home.

He’s still figuring out how to talk to Malcolm about the whole mess as he walks the kid up and accepts the drink offered to him. He sips at the very good, very expensive scotch and his gaze slips to the bed where the pair of ever-present cuffs rest neatly atop the covers. The right words stretch further and further away. Gil doesn’t know a whole lot about Malcolm’s personal life other than he’d had what, a couple girlfriends, maybe a boyfriend who’d lasted all of six months? 

Per usual, Malcolm doesn’t miss much _or_ have the tact to hold his tongue. “Is there something you want to ask me?”

Gil stifles a sigh and knocks back his drink for a touch of liquid courage. He points with the glass. “They’re more than for a good night’s sleep aren’t they, Bright. You’re into that kind of stuff.”

“That kind of stuff,” Malcolm echoes, amused. “You mean bondage and sado-masochism.”

Psychoanalysts probably have a term for the way Malcolm deflects with textbook definitions and wry humor. Whatever it is, Gil puts it in the same category of asshole maneuvers employed by every Joebob who thinks they’re smarter than the cop grilling them. “Right.”

To his credit though, Malcolm doesn’t stick with wry taunting and breaks out the bold-faced honesty. “What can I say, it helps. Calms the demons down,” he says. His lashes sweep downward briefly. “Sometimes, anyway.”

“So today in that alley you were willing to provoke that guy because if he hurt you, you’d be into it. Is that it?”

Malcolm ducks, a rueful smile twisting his mouth as he shakes his head no. All of a sudden he’s like a nervous kid again, all the devil-may-care bullshit gone into thin air. “It’s not quite like that,” he explains. He worries his lip with his teeth as he looks for a way to put voice to whatever it is rattling around in his head. “Today in the alley, that was...prioritizing information over my own bodily safety--” Hastily he holds up a hand. “I know. I know! I make a habit of it, but that’s a different issue predicated primarily on a lack of valuing my own self-worth. The masochism and submission touches that a bit, sure, but it’s more about my, um….” Malcolm trails off with a strained sound and takes a sip of his own drink. His hand trembles slightly. “You realize how embarrassing this is, don’t you?”

“You think you’re embarrassed,” Gil huffs a laugh. Outside of the ‘always use a condom and go get tested regularly’ talk he’d delivered fifteen years ago, Malcolm’s sex life isn’t anything he’d ever expected to discuss with the kid. Let alone something he’d find himself dwelling over. He shifts forward, hunching over his empty glass and rolling it between his fingers on the countertop. He aches to grab Malcolm’s hand and still the tremors beneath his own. “Look, I just need to know you’re not going out there looking to get your ass beat on my watch because you’re not, you know, getting enough of it on your own time.”

“Are you--?” Malcolm pauses, squints, and shakes away whatever question almost slipped out. “Nevermind, bad timing and I’m already mortified. Look, I get what I need when I need it. I’ll try and be better about the impulse control when it matters.”

Gil doesn’t say what he’s thinking which is that it _always fucking matters_. When he leaves, he judges differently the way Malcolm looks at him after he pulls the kid into a quick hug and tells him to have a good night, and as he steps out into the chill he’s caught up in wondering if the tremors stop when Malcolm’s strapped to the bed and begging someone to hurt him.

*

_“You showed me what a good man looks like.”_

The longer Malcolm’s on his team, the more Gil starts to question how good of a man he really is. He’d spent more time than he should’ve with Malcolm over the years, far more than Jessica would like--though, what she wants for Malcolm is for the kid to pretend nothing ever happened and that’s a goddamn pipe dream to end all pipe dreams. Even Jackie who loved the kid like he was her own wondered if maybe him letting Malcolm ride around on the job wasn’t doing more harm than good. And where did it get them? He couldn’t say that Malcolm was any better off for it.

But Malcolm had needed a father figure. Needed some kind of moral compass to get him through his youth. And maybe it’d been part ego and part fuck you to the brass to let the kid tag along after he passed his detectives exam.

Now though? More harm than good is a serious concern, the clearance rates on their cases be damned. The way he sees Malcolm looking at him these days is…questionable. For the both of them. Putting aside being in charge of the kid, with twenty-five years on the force and people still thinking he’s straight as an arrow, Gil hides shit a whole lot better.

“Better watch it boss, DI’s raging,” JT mutters under his breath, giving him the eyebrows as he steps away from the trio of bodies and leaves Malcolm to it. Domestic gone wrong on the surface, but they might be looking at another annihilator. From the corner of his eye, Gil catches Dani’s smirk at their little codeword for Malcolm’s daddy issues.

“He’s going to clue in eventually, you two,” Gil warns quietly. 

But not quietly enough apparently, because Malcolm’s glancing over from the body of the oldest son, the pale gleam of his eyes wide and curious. “Clue in to what?”

Gil has never felt more like a parent to these three assholes. “Just...concentrate on the scene, Bright.”

The instant Malcolm goes back to studying the victim’s wounds, JT mouths, “yes, daddy,” and if only. _If only._ Putting these two chucklefucks aside, if Bright would listen to a goddamn word he said shit would go a lot smoother around here.

*

_”I get what I need when I need it.”_

Gil becomes increasingly unsure Malcolm gets anything he needs. The kid hardly eats, hardly sleeps, and the visits to his father make him jittery and unstable in ways that gnaw at Gil like a junkyard dog going at a bone. He never should’ve involved Malcolm in all this. Then again, isn’t it better to be able to keep an eye on him? 

Today’s problem is he’d needed to haul Malcolm back by the scruff of the neck when he got too close to a suspect, and just like that time when he’d watched Malcolm get thrown to the mat, there’s no doubt the kid got off on it, just a little. Maybe not even consciously.

Worse, he knows Malcolm recognized that he’d noticed. That he’d _reacted_ to Malcolm’s noticing by pulling his hand away like he’d touched a hot stove. As with everything else the kid tries to ignore by shoving it away in some deep dark place, Malcolm had shrugged it off and pretended to be fine, but Gil could see it’d stung him, that rejection.

He sits in his car long minutes after he’s eased it into its space. It wasn’t the way Malcolm’s breath caught, or the flare in his eyes that Gil had been taken aback by, it’d been the way his own guts had knotted up. The knowing that deep down he’d wanted to keep the momentum going and leverage the way Malcolm looked at him. Still wants to, hours later.

“Fuck me,” he breathes out on a sigh, and kills the engine to hit the corner store before trying to make it through the evening without reminiscing about how much Jackie had liked the rough stuff. How she’d sometimes like to put on a short skirt and play the tease to get spanked red, and yet deep down what she really wanted at the end of the night was to be taken care of and for Daddy to treat her right.

And if that didn’t describe Malcolm, too….

*

_“He’s been two steps ahead of us at every turn.”_

“I wanted you to hear it from me first,” Gil says, breaking it to the kid that the Feds have just come in and kicked them all off the case. He can hear the anxiety leaking into Malcolm’s voice, the worry that he’s losing control and won’t be able to see this through after his whole world’s gotten flipped upside-down yet again.

He gives it about ten minutes before he calls back to reassure Malcolm that they’ll figure something out. The worst bit is, he’s got to consider the possibility that Malcolm is gearing up to do something phenomenally stupid like break into Claremont to get the answers he’s no longer free to access. “You at home right now?”

“No, I’m at my mothers, but I was just leaving.”

“Let’s talk all right? You and I can come up with a game plan. None of us want to give up on this, Bright.”

Malcolm goes quiet, the shallow hush of his breath whispering into the line. “Um, okay. Sure. Where?”

“How about I swing by your place after I get things sorted here,” Gil suggests, and he knows then in the pit of his stomach what he’s really offering even if Malcolm doesn’t.

Hell, even before this newest bomb dropped the kid was a bundle of raw nerves and jagged wounds; he needs someone to set him straight _and_ give him space to breathe all at once. Gil wants so badly to offer that, and do more for Malcolm than just try and shepherd him through the day. He wrangles a promise out of Malcolm to be good and wait for him before he plays nice with the Special Agent in charge to make sure the Feds don’t have anything to complain about. Still it’s later than he expects when he’s free to leave the precinct--well after the situation room’s been stripped bare, all evidence of the man hours they’d put in carted out by agents. He’s left simmering with the fury of helplessness over it all when he puts his lights on to stop for takeout.

As he’s handing over his credit card and ignoring the rumbling in his stomach, Gil spots a stack of little crayon boxes by the register. “Can I get a couple of those?” he asks, and the hostess sends him on his way with two packs and a whole new set of bad ideas.

It’s coming up on eleven when Malcolm buzzes him in, and Gil’s pulse goes into doubletime. This could go very poorly, but working on that mix of instinct and insight that’s gotten him this far in life he’s at least got a range of likely scenarios and contingency plans already mapped out in his head.

“Brought us some food,” he announces, and latches the door as Malcolm stands around near the kitchen island with an ice pack clutched to his side.

“I’m not really hungry.”

Gil puts the bag on the counter. “Good thing I didn’t ask if you were. Set the table, Bright.”

With an audible sigh, Malcolm pivots and gets out a pair of dishes and place settings. By the time he’s lining up the silverware on cloth napkins and helping Gil open up the containers of food, some of his tension has eased away. It’s natural for him, this dynamic of theirs, the foundation of it laid in the past in a kitchen that smelled like adobo simmering on the stove. Malcolm--probably fifteen by then--being put to work on Sunday mornings separating out wrappers to help Jackie make lumpia before the house was full of people watching the Giants fail to make it to the playoffs.

“Thanks, kiddo,” Gil says, and starts heaping food on the plates. The ache is still there. Along with a wavering unease because he’s not sure if she’d approve. Hell, he’s not sure _he_ approves even if Malcolm’s a grown man old enough to be starting a family of his own. “Promise me you’ll at least try to eat some of this.”

Malcolm lifts his fork and gives it a little waggle. “I’ll do my best.”

“It’s all I ever ask of you.”

Halfway through the meal, when Malcolm’s probably done as much eating as he’s going to, Gil slips the box of crayons out of his pocket and tosses it in front of him. “You remember what you drew the first time I gave you a set of these?”

Malcolm’s eyes flash up and it’s not obvious whether or not that bit of his memory is clear. His fingers flirt towards reaching for them, but then curl back into a loose fist. “I remember feeling too old to play with crayons.”

“You’re never too old to play with crayons,” Gil says, and between bites takes the set back and opens it up, dumping the crayons out between them.

“My psychiatrist says the same thing. Are you trying to get me to do art therapy?”

“First time I sat you down in an interview room and gave you a set of these, I was just trying to keep you occupied and you, Malcolm, you drew me a box,” Gil says, and lets him sit with that for a while. Eventually, he pushes aside his plate and turns towards Malcolm, leveling him with a look that doesn’t give him room to glance away. “I’m sorry that I didn’t try harder to understand what you were saying when you were a little boy.”

Malcolm seems as if he’s trying to decide between a thank you or a dismissal. In the end, he says, “Look, we don’t need to talk about that.”

“We don’t,” Gil agrees. At least Malcolm has heard him say it unequivocally. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I thought we were going to strategize and figure out how to keep investigating Lazar.”

“We are, and step one is getting you to calm the fuck down before you do something that’ll get you locked up or killed or both.”

“Ah, so this is ‘call for backup’ part two. You’re babysitting.”

“Act like a child, Bright, and you’ll get treated like a child,” Gil says, balancing his tone between stern and teasing.

Malcolm’s expression changes, turns subtly searching. His gaze catches briefly on Gil’s before he decides to laugh off the charge in the air. “Too bad you didn’t bring any construction paper and safety scissors. I make a mean hand turkey.”

“I’ll remember that the next time,” Gil says, and stacks plates. He takes them to wash directly in the sink and nods towards the dish towel, giving Malcolm something to do. It’s only a couple plates and glasses, but he takes his time and makes small talk, the kind every cop does after a shift even though he doesn’t have the sort of wild stories anymore that come from patrol.

And when Malcolm is drying and tucking things away back in the cabinets, Gil rolls the dice.

He takes one of the glasses from the counter and reaches past Malcolm’s head to slide it back where it belongs, shutting the cabinet and holding his arm there to cage the kid in the space beside the fridge. He doesn’t step away, and Malcolm turns to look sidelong at him, pattern of his breath shifting and exhibiting all those stressors that he likes to point out in the middle of an interrogation. The important thing is that Malcolm’s hand isn’t shaking. The rest of him is though, Gil notes, a faint shivering that he tries and fails to control.

He drops a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, and it’s so different than the way he might do it in the middle of the day. Probably he’s exhibiting his own stressors, but Malcolm’s not looking like he doesn’t want him this close. He doesn’t flinch away when Gil’s thumb digs lightly into the muscle there but rather softens into it. “Whatever you need from me kid,” he says, and lets the touch slide meaningfully down Malcolm’s arm towards his elbow. “Anything.”

“Fuck. Gil,” Malcolm twists, looks up into his eyes to gauge the weight of his words. He shudders _hard_ when Gil’s thumb moves in a small circle, and a soft sound leaks out of his throat. “Oh my God, I--“ He starts to go to his knees, his fingers scrabbling at Gil’s belt buckle like he’s starving for it.

“Whoa, Bright, _stop._ ” Grip hardening, Gil hauls Malcolm back up before he hits the tile.

“Oh shit did I just-- Fuck!” Malcolm’s eyes go wide and his hungry desperation shifts to panic. He backs right into the fridge and yelps, clutching at his side and holding up a hand. “Gil, I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

“Just slow down. Take a breath, kid. You got yourself all busted up today; you think I want you on the floor?”

“But you do...want me. I didn’t just read that situation entirely wrong.”

Hearing it out of Malcolm’s mouth like that--Gil takes a step back to get a little more breathing room for himself. He smooths a hand down his face, clawing tangles out of his goatee. “It’s not advisable and not exactly kosher seeing as how I’m sort of your boss, but...yes,” he says. “And I’m not saying it isn’t the stupidest idea I’ve ever come up with.”

“Second only to asking me to consult?”

Gil huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. That definitely takes the cake.”

“You have no idea how badly I want this,” Malcolm admits. He lets out a breath in a burst and his weight shifts slowly from one leg to the other. His fingers flutter, like he’s doing his level best to not go straight for Gil’s belt again. Abruptly he pauses. “Or, I suppose, maybe you do?”

“Subtlety is not your strong suit, kid.”

Malcolm’s brows slide together a touch sheepishly. “Is it that obvious?”

Gil gives him an eyebrow.

“Well that’s mortifying.” Malcolm eyes slide shut and his mouth twists in a wry smile. Gil suspects he’s connecting a lot of dots in that pretty head of his right now. The next time JT and Dani make cracks at his expense, it’s not gonna fly.

Gil laughs and scoops the crayons off the counter. “Come on, kid. Do me a favor and get some paper.”

“For what?”

“Don’t ask, just hustle.”

Malcolm comes up with a stack of writing paper. It’s monogrammed--of fucking course it is--and the kind of expensive shit that’s more cotton than pulp. “How’s this?” he asks, and then notices what Gil’s carrying. He sets the paper on his desk. “Oh, I see. Are we doing that? I need to tell you that I’ve never really been one for roleplay.”

Now that’s one of the few things that Gil can honestly say surprises him about Malcolm. “Never?”

“It isn’t really my thing.”

“Funny, because when I look at you,” Gil tosses the crayons to him and advances on Malcolm as he fumbles to catch them. “Everything tells me you’re dying to call me Daddy.”

Malcolm’s breath catches again. His tongue rolls over his lip. A weak and hungry sound escapes him and it goes straight to Gil’s cock. “I, uh-- I am. A lot. But this?” He holds a crayon up between them as he retreats. “Ageplay is a little outside my wheelhouse. Let’s negotiate.”

“You want to negotiate?” Gil raises an eyebrow. Conceptually he gets it. You sort of have to in his line of work, but it’s not like this is a part of his life the way it seems to be for Malcolm, and he’s so used to running on his gut with people who look at him like this that talking it out seems unnecessary.

“Nice job coming on strong, but I’m your first experienced submissive, aren’t I?”

“Words I never thought I’d hear out of your mouth, Bright.”

“Tit for tat,” Malcolm replies, setting the crayons neatly on the window ledge. He gestures politely for Gil down to sit with him on the couch and draws in a deep steadying breath. Quickly, he runs through a set of rules--basic stuff that Gil feels doesn’t need saying up until Malcolm explains his safeword, adding, “So I might beg you to stop, or protest, or even fight back a bit, but everything is still on the table unless I use it. And if _I_ do something that makes _you_ uncomfortable you can use the stoplight system, red…”

“I got it, kid.”

Malcolm pauses, likely going through a mental catalog to figure out what else he thinks is essential for Gil to know. “So the way this normally goes is we discuss the scene first. What I want out of it. What my top wants out of it. I told you roleplay isn’t usually my thing, so tell me why it’s yours.” He sits up a little more straight, like he’s focusing all of his attention waiting for Gil’s response. It’s not unlike when he’s trying to put together a profile.

This hadn’t been on the list of likely outcomes Gil had thought through. He’s lucky maybe that he’d been wrestling with this for weeks now so that he has anything resembling an answer. Still, it’s hard to say aloud, and he clears his throat to reach for the words.

Ever the upstart, Malcolm doesn’t quite give him enough time. “Let me start with what I know: the whole Daddy/son thing has nothing to do with paraphilias or an interest in children. Conceptually I understand, but I still don’t entirely get it on a gut level. I mean,” he rolls his eyes and tips his head to the side, “I _definitely_ get the calling you Daddy part--I’m a bit of a brat--but when you bring in the ageplay aspects, that’s pretty far outside of my experience. And with our background, it gets...complicated.”

“I picked up the crayons at the restaurant on a whim; I don’t even know why, to be honest. It seemed like something that might be good for you.” Gil’s brows draw together as he thinks it out aloud. “It’s like this: You’re wired to want someone to take care of you. And uh, to push you around a bit. I’m the exact opposite. But one thing I know about you Malcolm is that you don’t need to be controlled. You need to be in control. More than that: the little kid who saved my life needs to be in control.“

“That makes perfect sense. I also think--and I can’t believe I’m saying this--we shouldn’t involve sex. Not if you really want to try this kind of roleplay. I remember Martin was a good father to me, but you of all people know my memory isn’t reliable. What if this triggers something about myself that even I don’t know? If that were the case, I’d hate to risk associating you with anything abhorrent my father might have done.”

“So where does that leave things?” Gil asks. Everything’s gone off the rails, but at the same time, he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Malcolm might have been abused by Martin. He’d considered it twenty years back, sure, and when Malcolm had so consistently denied it and hadn’t exhibited any of the usual signs he’d taken it as a given that the only thing Martin had been hiding was murder. “I just want to do right by you, kid. And you’re not the first young man who’s looked at me the way you do or the first pushy brat I’ve put in their place.”

“I bet,” Malcolm says, and his gaze skims briefly down Gil’s chest. “Look, I think you might be right and that age roleplay is something I should consider in a scene. I’ve never tried it and it could prove therapeutic and healing. I also think that if it’s not particularly important to you that I try to get into the headspace of a little boy, we could put that aside for now because I would--” His lips thin briefly into a line and he takes another steadying breath. “Gil, I would absolutely _love_ to get down on my knees right here to worship your cock and call you Daddy. If you’re interested, you could give me a few fresh bruises to distract from the rest. And, of course, take care of me for a little bit after.”

“Jesus,” Gil breathes. Malcolm wanting that from him--to do that for him--turns his throat dry. The hard kick of lust ups his pulse and the clasp of his hands in his lap instantly goes too-warm. He slides his hands to his thighs instead, and it comes off like an invitation.

“Is that okay?” Malcolm asks, tracking his hands and then glancing back up. He shifts to perch at the edge of the couch cushions. “Gil?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Perfect, okay. Give me a minute, I’ll be right back,” Malcolm says, and leaps up to head towards the corner of the loft where his bed is.

Gil very deliberately doesn’t watch him go. Instead, he topples back into the couch cushions and covers his face with his hands. What the fuck has he gotten himself into? He groans softly, the mix of anticipation and nerves knotting up his insides impossible to tease apart. Behind him float the sounds of Malcolm going about getting ready: the hiss of water in the bathroom, the slide of a couple drawers, the telltale jangling, and the clicking of metal on metal.

When the kid comes back, he’s stripped down to a pair of snug boxer briefs and wearing cuffs on his wrists--a carabiner hangs off one of them and they’re different, Gil notes, than the restraints clipped to his bed--while in his hands, Malcolm carries a thick leather collar with a fat ring hanging from the center. Wordlessly, he holds it out and Gil maps out the pattern of bruising scattered across the kid’s bare torso. It’s so much worse than earlier in the day, angry red marks turned into ugly purple lines blossoming across his ribs and arms and chest.

“Look me in the eye and hold it longer than you want to,” Malcolm instructs as he sinks to the floor in front of Gil. Unconsciously, Gil spreads his legs to make room, and Malcolm sits back on his heels in the space. He lifts his throat expectantly. “You’ll know when I’m ready. Just...watch the ribs, of course, but other than that everything is fair game including fucking me. If you want that, the condoms are next to the bed, and I, um, have really great pelvic control.” He shakes out his arms and flashes a brief smile that betrays the manic energy he’s kept contained just under the surface. Releasing a breath on a hard gust settles him again. “All right. Let’s go.”

Tentatively, Gil reaches out. It hardly feels like his hand that tips Malcolm’s chin up just a bit more, and Gil’s stomach flips like a pancake as Malcolm leans into it, lips parting as their eyes meet. It’s hard not to look away after a breath, gets tougher still when the rest of the room feels like it’s receding and he’s noticing for the first time the flecks of color in the pale blue of Malcolm’s eyes. Malcolm’s right though, he can tell when the kid is ready: the pitch of his shoulders shift and the way he stares back at Gil softens, everything about him going pliant and waiting. In the span of seconds it’s like Gil’s become his entire world, and there’s no denying the sensation is a current running in both directions, as if he’s keyed to Malcolm so specifically that time slows to crawl for a moment.

Gil finds his breath and thumbs the leather of the collar, the flex of it in his hands surprisingly soft. Here goes nothing, he thinks, and slips it around Malcolm’s throat. Malcolm turns to press his open mouth against the inside of Gil’s arm as he fastens the buckle snug with--he makes a guess--two fingers for breathing room just like a dog.

“Good?” he asks, fingers sliding under the collar towards the kid’s throat.

“Good,” Malcolm confirms, his adam’s apple bobbing. He mouths at Gil’s wrist again, eyes flicking up like a question before closing his eyes and nuzzling there. His open mouth rubs at the heel of Gil’s hand and then his palm as Gil’s fingertips cradle lightly under Malcolm’s chin. Hot breath bleeds between Gil’s fingers, and he can feel the kid’s lazy smile spread as he runs the edge of his thumb over the curve of Malcolm’s jaw.

“You want it in your mouth, huh?” Gil says, and drags Malcolm’s lip down to bare the row of his teeth. Malcolm twists towards the touch again, tongue slipping out to lick over the pad of Gil’s thumb, so obscenely soft that Gil’s pants get tighter by the second.

“I do, Daddy,” Malcolm says, before sucking Gil’s thumb into his mouth. He closes his teeth around Gil’s knuckle and grins, rising up off his heels, spine flexing as his tongue teases along the whorl of Gil’s thumbprint.

The want is overwhelming, a surge like fire in his blood that tells him to curl the whole of his hand into Malcolm’s collar and haul him up and hold him there to watch while he pulls his dick out. To feed it to the kid inch by inch until Malcolm’s got as much of it as he can fit in his pretty mouth. A little nudge from the part of his brain still firing on all cylinders reminds him that there’s no reason he can’t, and still it takes a moment to get his muscles to listen. With Jackie he’d known what to do without overthinking it, a product of time and testing limits probably, but this-- It’s different than the last few times he’s gotten rough with a hookup; he cares what happens to Malcolm and it’s not like he’s never going to see the kid again. Gil slides his thumb out of Malcolm’s mouth and takes hold of the collar slowly, the wrap of his fingers causing the leather to indent into Malcolm’s skin. The kid goes still, rising a touch to ease the dig of it and gasping out a sound that’s half surprise and half pleasure.

Gil pulls and Malcolm flows with it like water. “You’re just dying for a taste of it aren’t you, Bright?” He’s careful not to tug Malcolm too far forward where the edge of the couch or the bend of Gil’s knee will dig into his ribs, just hauls him up enough that his attention goes right where Gil wants it: the bulge at his crotch where he’s thick and trapped.

Malcolm shivers, and gooseflesh ripples along his skin. His nipples are tight and peaked and his breathing turns to quick and shallow panting. He lays his palms on the cushions outside the spread of Gil’s thighs and swallows thickly. “I am. I really fucking am,” he rasps. “Please, Daddy. Please show me your cock.”

Releasing the hold on the collar abruptly sends Malcolm swaying and needing to catch his balance. It’s not great probably making him tighten his core to correct, and Gil makes a note to apologize for that later. He shifts to the edge of the couch, peeling off his turtleneck and his undershirt and throwing them to the side before he undoes his belt and strips it from the loops. Malcolm’s eyes are greedy and roving, and he dips down to scrape his teeth just above Gil’s knee as he lets out a jittery moan.

This is definitely a bad idea, Gil thinks, even as he’s unzipping his fly. A bad idea that there’s no going back on because he’s not stopping, and damn does he want this. He pushes the waist of his boxers down under his balls until the whole package is resting there between the open vee of his slacks for Malcolm to stare at. “All yours, kid,” he says, giving Malcolm a light smack on the face before grabbing a few pillows to cram behind him and leaning back with his fingers laced behind his head.

Malcolm doesn’t waste a second. The kid’s on him like a bitch in heat, landing little nipping bites up the inside seam of his slacks and palms sliding up and down Gil’s thighs until the moment the bridge of his nose bumps into the stiff length of Gil’s cock and then he goes still again, breath panting out of him. “Thank you,” he says, straight up rubbing his face against Gil’s cock, his lashes fluttering. His stubble is almost the start of a proper beard, and a bit of precome catches and smears in the whiskers, a gleaming wetness that matches the glisten of his tongue just past his lip.

It’s possibly the hottest fucking thing Gil’s seen in a long while.

“You smell so good, Daddy,” Malcolm says. He’s got his hands on Gil’s dick now, fingertips poised as he runs his lips light as a feather over every inch of it he can. The warm washes of breath on him are almost more of a tease than the soft drag of Malcolm’s lips mouthing at his cock and balls. “Fuck, Gil, you always smell good. Sometimes I want to steal your leather jacket just to breathe in the scent of you.”

“That so.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm says, smiling as he lifts his gaze. It’s not entirely beatific. There’s an edge there, a spark.

“You want me to think about that the next time I put it on, don’t you.”

“Maybe. Or, maybe I’d rather Daddy think about this,” Malcolm says, and runs the flat of his tongue all the way up and over the crown of Gil’s cock without breaking eye contact.

Gil’s hips jerk up off the couch, and the little punk moans when Gil’s hand drops and fists in the kid’s hair. It’s burned into his brain--that wet pink drag of Malcolm’s tongue tasting him--right along with the hungry groan Malcolm makes when he twists his grip and holds him in place. Malcolm’s grin turns fierce, that same manic triumph when he’d nearly gotten his arm dislocated. “Yes. Fuck. Feed it to me,” he gasps, hands flattening around the base of Gil’s dick to aim it square at his open mouth. “Shove it in me, Daddy. Make me choke on it.”

Christ, the effect Malcolm has on him is startling. If only he hadn’t gotten beat to shit, because Gil would love to shove the kid to the floor and fuck his face until he was gagging. Not that this is bad--holding Malcolm and letting him lap at the head of his dick like a fucking popsicle, straining for the chance to wrap his lips around it.

He lets the kid go at it until his nerves are sizzling, drags him off and Malcolm gasps and shudders when Gil knocks the kid’s hands away and fists his dick. “How bad do you want your Daddy’s cock?” he asks.

“So fucking bad,” Malcolm groans. His nails claw against the fabric of the couch and his hips shift fitfully in the sort of slow roll that makes the idea of taking the kid up on the offer to fuck him that much more tempting. His eyes burn with raw hedonistic want as he licks his lips obscenely wet and says, “C’mon, Daddy, fuck my face.”

Malcolm takes it like a champ when Gil forces his head down, moan lasting all of a second before it turns into a garbled mess and he lets Gil just ride it out on his tongue and towards the tight trap of his throat. He takes a lot before he’s coughing and sputtering and clutching at Gil’s hips in a way that most certainly doesn’t mean stop.

Gil pulls him off to give him a chance to catch his breath, knows his own lust is weighing heavy in his eyes when Malcolm’s laugh peppers into the air in a way that Gil recognizes as pure exhilaration, a new high dumping endorphins into his veins.

Gasping and grinning, Malcolm slides his hands off the couch to give his own cock a hard, desperate squeeze. “You might want to bind my wrists,” he says, a shudder wracking his frame. “It’s taking everything I’ve got not to just jerk it right onto the floor.”

“You come this early kid, it’s your problem and it’s your loss. Daddy’s not gonna suck a load out of you if you blow it now.”

“Oh my god. Oh, fuck.” Malcolm pries his hand away from himself, reaches with fumbling fingers for the carabiner and does it himself, latching his wrists together behind his back. He shakes his head, but the strands of hair that’ve fallen loose across his forehead just settle right back into place. “Gil--Daddy--oh my god, this is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever done. I’m sorry in advance if I just lose it in my shorts.”

Gil takes hold of Malcolm’s shoulders to keep him from tipping forward. He helps the kid get back into position and fists his dick to hold it again near the promise of that sweet soft mouth. This time he doesn’t go for force, just lets it slip back up against Malcolm’s cheek, rub there and nudge near the corner of his lips so he chases it with his tongue. Malcolm dips his head, moaning as he traces his tongue over every inch of Gil’s cock and down over his balls, licking whatever he can reach. Eventually the giddiness fades into a slow rhythm that cycles with his breath and the drag of his lips, the slow lapping of his tongue. The kid could probably sit and suck dick for hours and end up asking for more.

He slips his hand through Malcolm’s hair as the kid lays his cheek against Gil’s thigh, cock taken into his mouth now and gently suckling. Malcolm’s eyes slide shut, drifting open again after a time when Gil runs his knuckles over the rise of his cheek to feel from the outside the press of his cock resting inside Malcolm’s mouth.

“You like that, kid?” he asks and Malcolm’s answering moan hums through his flesh. He tucks a strand of Malcolm’s hair back into place. “Do you like it more than having it shoved down your throat?”

The twitch of Malcolm’s shoulders says no. He pulls back and Gil’s cock slips out of his mouth, spit stringing and shining. The hands low at his back twist together and he presses a kiss to the inside of Gil’s thigh, wet lips staining Gil’s slacks dark. “Please choke me on your dick again, Daddy,” he rasps, cheek rubbing against Gil’s leg between kisses.

He shuffles out of the way when Gil stands and watches raptly as Gil sheds the rest of his clothes. Malcolm wasn’t exaggerating about maybe losing it in his shorts. There’s a wet stain of precome where he’s tenting the fabric and his dick is so hard Gil can see it throbbing with his pulse. “Come here, Bright,” Gil says, beckoning Malcolm back and catching his face between his hands. He pushes a thumb into Malcolm’s mouth and forces his jaw down, pinning the wriggle of his tongue. “That’s it, nice and wide. You’re going to take it hard in the mouth for Daddy, aren’t you?”

Malcolm nods and Gil sucks the kid’s spit off his finger before he fucks back into Malcolm’s mouth. It’s obscene how easy the kid takes it--keeps taking it, all the way into the throat, and he has to read the squirm of Malcolm’s shoulders to judge when the slam of his dick becomes too much because Malcolm just moans for it whenever he can breathe. His eyes are wet when Gil stops fucking his face and pulls out, and there’s a hoarseness in the cough that follows which makes Gil wonder if he’d maybe gone too far, but Malcolm isn’t shying away, isn’t using his safeword. He’s surging back, trying to catch Gil’s dick again with his tongue and cram his face full until his lips are grinding against Gil’s pubes.

He goes two more rounds. Pulls Malcolm off each time coughing and gasping, his lips reddened and dripping, and Gil gets the sense he’d keep going until he passed out if given the chance.

“Up,” Gil tells him, hooking a hand into his armpit and holding him steady.

Malcolm wavers as he finds his balance. “Was it good, Daddy?” he asks, grinning. He looks drunk.

“Real good, kid,” he says. He rubs Malcolm’s arms lightly, the skin there gone a touch cold. He can’t pull his eyes away from Malcolm’s mouth. Somehow, kissing him seems more wrong than fucking him. It’s intimate in a way that he can’t so easily pretend this is just servicing a need Malcolm has, that he’s doing it mostly because he needs to and not because he wants to.

“Do you want more? Does Daddy want to dump a load in my mouth and watch me swallow it?”

“When did your mouth get so goddamn filthy?” Gil asks, a touch amused even as he’s considering it.

“You could make it a whole lot filthier,” Malcolm says, somewhat matter-of-factly. He flicks the release on the carabiner and brings his hands around between them, fingers caging Gil’s cock and lightly thumbing the head. He leans in and puts his mouth to Gil’s throat before his tone goes towards goading again: “I bet Daddy has a real big load saved up in his nice fat balls. Shoot it in my mouth and I’ll hold it all on my tongue so you can see it before I swallow. That is...if you’ll let me swallow it, Daddy.”

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Gil mutters, and angles Malcolm’s head up to kiss him in part just to shut the kid up.

The ripple that goes through Malcolm’s body is _intense_ and Malcolm rips away with a staggering step backwards.

“Shit, Bright, are you okay?” Gil asks, worry superceding the hot tingle spreading along his nerves. It stops him from clamping a hand down on Malcolm’s wrist and forcing him back, but he does reach out.

“I, uh, fuck. I wasn’t expecting that,” Malcolm says. He traces a finger over his lip and shivers again, hard, and the look he turns towards Gil doesn’t seem to say he’s experiencing anything overwhelmingly bad. He catches his breath and his hand flickers, gesturing between them. He swallows quickly. “Wasn’t expecting my reaction to it, that is.”

“Good reaction or bad reaction?”

“Good. I think,” he says, his brow furrowing. “Sorry. We don’t need to stop, just...give me a second.”

For a moment, Gil wonders if he means it. If this is some kind of a test because Malcolm hasn’t used his safeword and maybe this is a line Malcolm wants him to cross. He doesn’t though and it isn’t very long before Malcolm’s breath turns steady and his hand lowers. “Hey,” Gil says softly, and the way Malcolm raises his eyes again to look at him is weighted with something unspoken. “Tell me what you need right now.”

“I--” The ring at Malcolm’s throat sways. His breath goes choppy again.

“C’mon kid, spill.”

“Hold me down, please, Gil,” he says, like that’s somehow a more risque ask than jizzing in his mouth. “I want you-- I want you to hold me down and kiss me again.”

“You sure that’s what you want?”

“I’m sure, Daddy.”

“Okay.” Gil snaps a hand out and clamps his grip to Malcolm’s arm, just above the bulk of the heavy leather cuff. He’s fast enough that it startles Malcolm, brings that spark back and the flirt of a grin.

There’s a bruise dark on Malcolm’s forearm, and he shifts his grip not to avoid it, but to press down hard right beside it until he can feel the bone of Malcolm’s arm grinding under his thumb. He leans in, his mouth pressing into Malcolm’s hair, and asks: “Do you want Daddy to hold you down or tie you down to kiss you?”

“God, both,” Malcolm moans.

Gil looks him in the eye and cocks an eyebrow. “Can’t have both, kid.”

“You can’t blame me for trying. If you tie me down…,” Malcolm says, and licks his lips. “Will you want to come in my mouth? Or will Daddy want to use my ass?”

Gil rolls his eyes and nods towards the bed. “Get over there, Bright, and find out.”

This time he watches Malcolm go and lets himself be free to admire the view. That morning yoga routine was doing something; Gil could bounce a quarter off the kid’s butt. He gathers up the scatter of his clothes to stack them on the seat of one of the kitchen stools as Malcolm crouches down at the corner of the bed and starts pulling out a strap tucked under the mattress. “Arms and legs? Or just arms?” Malcolm asks, skirting around to the other side. But before Gil can answer he’s following the logic himself, saying: “I presume that you’ve decided on fucking me or are keeping the option open, so you’ll probably want my legs free for maneuverability since the whole rib thing means I’ll need to be on my back. Though if you do want to pin me more completely without, uhm, compromising access, the safest option is probably attaching my wrists to my ankles and then strapping those down.” He lingers at the foot of the bed. “I can break out the ankle cuffs if you want them. What do you think, Daddy?”

Gil skirts the question. “Why not use these?” he asks, nudging the nighttime restraints that have been set on the endtable, their tethers trailing under the bed to the wall.

“They’re to keep me from sleepwalking or knocking things over and not the right length to effectively hold me in place. For one, I can take them on and off myself, while this set will leave me dependant on you to let me free.” He glances upward and waves a hand expansively as he quantifies the statement. “Okay, technically there’s a panic catch for quick release, so I’m not _entirely_ at your mercy, but it’ll still feel like it. Trust me.”

“Got it.”

“Also there’s something to be said for separating something I receive sexual pleasure from and something I use for my night terrors, although this whole situation is crossing a few wires when it comes to mixing work and pleasure….”

“Stop talking and get on the fucking bed, kid,” Gil says.

Malcolm’s mouth snaps shut and he eases onto the bed. He flings one arm up towards the clip waiting at the corner of the mattress and starts to reach across himself to secure it when he winces and falls back. “Okay, maybe not. Daddy, will you help me?”

There’s that little voice in the back of Gil’s head, grumpy and bitching, because why is it Malcolm can so easily ask for help for this and not, oh, when he’s deciding to go run down a serial killer in a dark tunnel. Stubbornly, he ignores the voice; Malcolm’s regard for himself and others is a work in progress. He clips the cuff to the strap on the arm closest to him, and puts a knee to the bed to lean over Malcolm and affix the other. “That all right?” he asks, hovering above Malcolm.

Malcolm gives each one a little tug and nods. His eyes dart towards the bedside. “If you _are_ going to fuck me, that’s silicone lubricant there. Just make sure you wipe your hand off on the towel really well after application. It...lasts.”

“Good to know,” Gil says, a little distracted by the stretch of Malcolm’s body. He takes a seat next to Malcolm and runs a hand down the kid’s chest. He gets it now, the power trip of all this--not from the way Malcolm can’t wriggle free, but from the way Malcolm’s anticipation has turned the corner from _what can I do for Daddy_ towards _what’s Daddy going to do to me_. 

The way he’d imagined it might go before, trying to get Malcolm to loosen up and play, he’d thought about pulling Malcolm into his lap and holding the kid’s back to his chest to get him off with a spit-wet hand. Something nice and gentle after all the hurts his body had already suffered today.

But now he finds his fingers drifting towards the bruises and tender spots with the realization that he can transform them for Malcolm; he can override what Lazar’s left scattered across Malcolm’s body. He avoids the bruising on Malcolm’s ribs and the places where he knows if you land a punch you could cause some serious bleeding, and flirts with putting pressure on the hurts laid over muscle. He varies how hard he digs his fingers in until Malcolm’s sucking in a breath through his teeth and pulling at the restraints, his slim hips fucking the air.

Gil works his way down and up again, the inside of his arm dragging lightly over where Malcolm’s still hard in his shorts. Pressing near the dark bruise striped across his obliques sends Malcolm’s foot sliding up protectively, his knee banging into Gil, and Gil catches Malcolm’s bent leg under his arm, pinning it tight to his side.

“You can hurt me a lot more than this, you know,” Malcolm says a little dreamily.

“You’ve got enough bumps and bruises, kiddo,” he says. He pats the meat of Malcolm’s thigh and gives it a little squeeze. “I’m not going to give you new ones.”

“How about next time, Daddy?”

Sure, Malcolm had suggested as much before, but Gil hasn’t honestly considered a next time, and he can tell Malcolm reads it on his face. He gives the bruising on Malcolm’s leg a firmer squeeze. “You think you’ll need a next time?”

“I’ll always need you, Daddy,” Malcolm says, and it’s a little too raw and real.

Slowly, Gil frees Malcolm’s leg in order to lean down over him. He’s careful not to put his weight on the span of Malcolm’s chest as he holds to the headboard. A gentle exhalation whispers against his mouth. His gaze skips between Malcolm’s eyes. “You know how much I care about you, don’t you, Bright?”

The heat of Malcolm’s breath stops leaking into the space between them and there’s a rattle of metal on metal. Gil glances over and slides a hand to grasp at Malcolm’s fingers until they cease trembling.

“I don’t need to say it,” Gil tells him, working his thumb gently into Malcolm’s palm. “I just need you to know I’ll always be here for you.”

“I know.”

He gives Malcolm’s hand a final squeeze and slips the touch towards Malcolm’s shoulder, pausing for a moment before pressing there _hard_ to pin the kid to the mattress. Malcolm arches under him, a loud groan spilling into the silence of the room.

“Guess you _can_ have both,” he says, smirking as he brushes his lips across Malcolm’s.

The fresh jolt through Malcolm’s system is stifled by Gil’s weight, his other arm yanking hard against the cuff. He’s turning _towards_ the kiss this time, softly begging, and Gil can feel the muscles in the kid’s shoulder tense under his palm as Malcolm briefly makes a fist before his fingers stretch out, grasping for more. The next light brush of his mouth on Malcolm’s finds the kid’s tongue chasing out to lick at him. “Please, Daddy. _Fuck._ ”

He doesn’t give Malcolm what he wants right away, shifts instead to get his knees on the bed and one of them between Malcolm’s legs like a promise. He lets the headboard bear the bulk of his weight as he drops a kiss near Malcolm’s temple, enjoys the feeling of Malcolm straining beneath him like a wave waiting to crash. 

“Daddy’s going to make you feel good,” Gil says, holding his cheek against Malcolm’s before echoing the promise straight against the kid’s eager mouth. “So good.”

The swipe of Malcolm’s tongue across his lip sends electricity down his spine and his cock jumps enough to smack against the kid’s skin. It’s like a chain reaction from there: Malcolm’s leg shifting to rub eagerly against the heat of it, the frustrated pull against the cuffs and the weight at the kid’s shoulder, and then the high whining moan left for Gil to swallow.

“You want it up your sweet little ass just as much as you wanted it in your mouth?”

“Oh fuck, I do,” Malcolm says. His hips buck up off the bed between desperate attempts to coax Gil’s tongue into his mouth. “I want you to fucking pound me, Gil. Oh god, please. Please dick me, Daddy.”

Gil kisses him then, properly. Takes Malcolm’s mouth and thrusts his tongue in deep to drink up the feverish, hungry sounds the kid makes as he tries to kiss back. He slides his hand from Malcolm’s shoulder to his neck, grips the collar there and breaks the kiss briefly to shift the angle and slot their mouths together again, sucking forcefully on Malcolm’s lip and leaving him gasping at the end. He goes back for more, diving back to catch Malcolm’s mouth at different angles and make the kid guess, scramble each time to match the push of his tongue. And then, when he finally takes Malcolm’s mouth to kiss him slow and thorough, he hooks a thumb in the ring of the collar and pushes it up so the edge digs against the line of Malcolm’s jaw.

He fucks the kid’s mouth with his tongue, easing away with a satisfied groan. When he slides his hand out of the collar, he leaves Malcolm with a final biting kiss, and sits up to grab the condoms. “Daddy’s going to give it to you nice and hard, kid,” he says, deliberately ignoring the squirming and quivering mess he’s left Malcolm as he stands up to roll one on. He tosses the towel onto the flat of Malcolm’s belly before he tugs Malcolm’s shorts down to let him kick them away and skips the urge to give the kid’s cock a tug. He’s probably on a hair trigger, and as nice as it’d be to see him spill it just like that, Gil really wants to fuck one out of him.

It’s not long before he’s ready to go, knees shuffling between Malcolm’s and nudging his thighs apart. Malcolm’s impeccably groomed, hair trimmed short around the base of his dick and waxed everywhere else like a fucking porn star. “Does ‘great pelvic control’ mean you’re the kind of bottom that can take Daddy’s dick without needing too long to adjust,” Gil asks. He gives Malcolm’s balls a tug before spitting on his fingers to reach down and give the kid’s bare hole a tickle.

“Yes,” Malcolm breathes, and Gil can feel him flex against his questing fingers. “Maybe not if you were a bit bigger but--” His eyes flare open and he stumbles to qualify the statement: “I mean, not to say you don’t have a big cock, Gil, it’s fucking amazing. I just have some limits.”

Gil chuckles quietly. “No matter where I rank in your little black book, kid, it’s gonna feel big enough in a minute,” he says, and sizes Malcolm up with the wet twist of a finger. Just that brief dip inside and he can tell Malcolm’s not lying; the clench of his asshole opens up sweetly around Gil’s finger, and when he adds the lube, it’s one sinfully easy slide all the way until his knuckles are pressed up against the heat of Malcolm’s taint.

“Oh fuck,” Malcolm moans on repeat when Gil wipes his hand off and aims his cock, head nudging up nice and snug against Malcolm’s hole. It won’t take much to push inside. Malcolm’s fighting the restraints now, trying to inch down when Gil doesn’t move fast enough for him. “Oh fuck, Daddy, please. Please give it to me.”

He rubs the head over the pink flush of Malcolm’s hole and hooks a hand under the kid’s knee to lift it so he can watch that first push in, make sure he’s got the angle right to just keep on going until he’s buried far enough that Malcolm’s muscles aren’t going to try and pop him right out again. “That’s it,” he says, seating himself another inch deeper. “Daddy’s halfway inside you. Does it feel good, kid?”

“So good, Daddy. So fucking good,” Malcolm says, his mouth falling open when Gil pulls back to give him a shallow thrust. “Pound me hard please, Daddy. I need your dick deep inside me.”

Gil keeps Malcolm’s knee hooked over his arm as he shifts forward, hand sinking into the softness of the bed. It buries him all the way to the root and Malcolm groans. “You tell me if this is okay, first,” he says, not sure if the bend is too much strain on Malcolm’s torso. The kid’s so damn flexible, it’s hard to tell.

Malcolm doesn’t answer right away. His hands curl into weak fists at the corners of the bed. “‘s good, Daddy,” he hisses, sucking his lower lip into his mouth before his jaw goes slack again.

“How good?” Gil strokes a hand up the outside of Malcolm’s thigh until he’s got a handful of the kid’s ass. The dig of his fingers into the muscle beneath makes Malcolm clench around him. Slowly, he works his arm under that knee too until the kid’s bent nearly in half, his legs splaying wide and heels bouncing in the air when Gil gives him a few shallow thrusts. “Still okay? How good does Daddy’s cock feel inside you?”

“Still good, Daddy. So fucking good,” Malcolm moans. “I love it, _fuck_. I love having your cock in me.”

“If you don’t come, Daddy’s going to suck you off after,” Gil says, giving his hips a slow roll that bottoms him out and following it up with a hard slapping thrust that drives a grunt out of Malcolm.

“Shit that’s hot, but, oh god, will it be okay if I can’t wait?” Malcolm asks, his gaze fixed on the space between them. Loose strands of his hair shiver against his forehead. “If Daddy does me hard, I don’t think I c--can-- Oh, my god, fuck. _Fuck!_ ”

Gil wrecks Malcolm’s attempt at talking with a few hard slams into him, then starts up a deep and steady rhythm as he says, “You might’ve taken some porn star dick, Bright, but if there’s one thing Daddy’s got, it’s stamina.” He scrapes his teeth over his lip and gives Malcolm a vaguely smug look. “I’m going to slam your pretty ass good and hard, city boy, so you better goddamn come on Daddy’s dick.”

The dirty anguished moan Malcolm makes is almost better than the feel of him. Gil gives it to him in slapping bursts, slowing down but never stopping, the places where their skin meets starting to stick then slip with sweat. Malcolm’s gaze flickers between watching Gil pound into him and up to stare at Gil’s face like he’s not sure if he’s dreaming. Gil shifts his weight to one arm and lets Malcolm’s leg fall free to grip the kid by the chin and force his head to the side. “You want to watch Daddy fuck you, but do you know what Daddy wants?”

“What?” Malcolm grinds out, his whole body straining and eager. He twitches, nerves on overload as Gil slides back almost all the way out to fuck into him with a bit more force. His eyes squint tight briefly and he gasps for each breath like there’s not enough air to be found. “What does Daddy want?”

“Daddy wants you to feel it,” he says, and releases his grip to deliver a stinging smack to Malcolm’s cheek.

Malcolm jerks and gasps and grins. He keeps his head turned on the pillow and his eyes shut, and Gil rewards him with a harder smack to the flank and a slamming thrust that sends a ripple through his body like an aftershock. “Oh god, yes, Daddy,” Malcolm moans, and after a third hard slap at his ass his expression eases into a slack smile and his eyes flutter. His breath goes light and high and he murmurs a litany of thank yous as Gil lands the hardest hit he’s willing to risk before jackhammering into the kid.

“Fu-u-uck, I-- Gil--” Malcolm’s brows knit together instantly and his thighs clench. He whines, a purely overwhelmed sound, his arms thrashing like he wants desperately to throw them around Gil’s neck.

For the first time tonight, the shudder runs through Gil, his core tightening as he pictures the curl of Malcolm’s arms slung around him, clinging to him. He drops his head and groans, and the sound echoes in the body beneath him, low and reverent. He’d thought the kid was so worked up it wouldn’t take much to make him come, but maybe it’s all too much. He glances up to see Malcolm’s face tipping upward, teeth digging into his lip, and Gil knows he’s right there and only needs a little help from Daddy.

He gives it hard to the kid as long as he can before needing a breather, then sits back on his knees and slides a hand under Malcolm to raise his hips a touch while catching hold of Malcolm’s straining dick. The slide of his cock inside the kid is still slick and easy, still blissfully tight around him.

“You’re almost there, kid. Come for Daddy,” he says, using the force from the quick slap of his hips to drive Malcolm’s cock into his fist. “You love taking my cock so much, Bright, let me see you come on it.”

The way Malcolm bends to meet the push of his cock is gorgeous; the kid’s lost in his own pleasure now, mouth slack even as his body works to make sure Gil’s hitting the right spot. And when finally Gil starts to feel him come--the trembling edge and shivering spill--he fucks Malcolm through it and to the other side. To where Gil’s no longer trying to figure out what angle and what pace makes the kid moan and just uses his sweet warm hole to stroke his cock. He tells the kid that as the pool of come shining wet on Malcolm’s belly quivers and spreads.

“Yes. Fuck yes. Use my hole, Daddy. Wreck my ass,” Malcolm says, breath leaving him in a burst. He’s got that drunken giddy look on his face again, and he’s almost slurring as he says: “God, Gil, you could have my ass or my mouth or anything anytime you want. I would be your personal come dump in a heartbeat.”

Gil can’t even process that right now, refuses to, though he’s suddenly lightheaded hearing that shit come out of Malcolm’s mouth because how in the everloving fuck is he going to look Malcolm in the eye the next time he calls him for a case without thinking about how damn hungry he is for a deep dicking.

Between moans Malcolm falls back into watching again, his limbs sprawled and a blissed out smile on his face as Gil chases his own pleasure and finishes inside him, pushed deep and grinding. A low groan rips out of Gil’s throat as he holds still for a moment and Malcolm’s smile spreads even more, beautiful and radiant. “Oh god, I can feel you throbbing. Thank you for giving me your load, Daddy,” he says. “Thank you. Fuck, I--“

He breaks into a needy sound when after a few slow, lazy thrusts that start tipping towards too intense, Gil pulls out. He rests a hand on Malcolm’s chest reassuringly as he fishes for the towel and gets rid of the condom, then wipes off his hands and Malcolm’s stomach before unclipping the kid’s wrists and telling him to make room. Malcolm tries, shifting to his side without thinking and wincing as he rolls to his back again.

“Nevermind, stay there,” Gil says, perching carefully on the edge of the bed beside him. He takes Malcolm’s hand in both of his own and starts lightly massaging each of his fingers and then his palm. “What do you like after?”

“Just stay with me a bit,” Malcolm says, his expression soft and sated. “I’d like it if you could wait until I’m cleaned up and help me back into bed, but I’m okay. This was fucking amazing, Gil. I didn’t really go out of my head though, if you know what I mean.”

He doesn’t, but as long as the kid’s all right. “I’ll stick around a bit,” he says, fingers working now at Malcolm’s wrist and the small bones at the heel of his hand. “Is it weird? Us doing this.”

“God yes, and my therapist will never outright say so, but she definitely won’t approve,” Malcolm admits. He breathes out a vaguely self-deprecating laugh and tangles his fingers together with Gil’s. “What about my life isn’t weird though. This is probably a four on a scale of ten, but I imagine it’s more strange for you.”

“Christ, you have no idea.”

Malcolm tugs Gil’s hand up towards his mouth, and runs his lips lightly over the ripple of Gil’s knuckles. “Well, I very much doubt I’m going to regret this in the morning. I hope that you don’t.”

“Told you, kid, I’ll always be here for you”

Malcolm’s gaze lifts slowly, and he crooks a smile before he flicks a kittenish lick between Gil’s fingers. “Thank you,” he says, hesitating in a way that Gil’s pretty sure he was going to end that sentence with Daddy. His head tilts in a way that Gil hastens to retrieve his hand before Malcolm can start sucking on his fingers.

“Cool it, kid. I’m beat and I need to head home and get some sleep, not try and go ten rounds with your insatiable ass.”

“Fine. Will you stay for a few more minutes while I brush my teeth? I think I’m going to shower in the morning, because I am also surprisingly--or unsurprisingly, probably--really, overwhelmingly tired.” Malcolm slides out of bed and stands, his legs briefly threatening to crumple beneath him. He laughs quietly as Gil immediately helps steady him, and flings out an arm to say he’s fine. “Wobbly deer thing,” he says, gesturing at his legs as he staggers towards the bathroom. “It’s um, normal. Always happens after a hard fuck.”

The instant the bathroom door clicks shut, Gil scrubs at his face with his hands. He’s already giving himself a pretty solid dressing down in the back of his head for being stupid enough to let his dick talk him around into thinking fucking Malcolm was going to be good for the kid. Nevermind that it’s the best fuck he’s had in years. Or that he’s giving serious weight to letting it happen again. Or that he still wants in that deep, confusing part of him to pull Malcolm into his arms and into his lap and see if that sort of kindness would help shake off some of the ever-present horror that the Surgeon’s left him with.

He takes the opportunity to pull his clothes back on and fix Malcolm’s bed--tucking away the corner straps back under the mattress and peeling back the covers. By the time he’s done, Malcolm’s returning looking a touch more put together, his walk more sturdy, his hair wet and slicked back. He’s still got that blissed out well-fucked look to him though, and Gil knows from the way he wants to draw the kid back down into the bed and wrap his arms around Malcolm that he’s got it bad.

“We’ll figure this out, Bright. I promise you,” he says, holding one of the cuffs open as Malcolm slips under the sheets. He fits it over Malcolm’s wrist and hands the other one over to let the kid fasten it himself as Gil pulls the covers up around him.

“The fact that I’m definitely going to want to have you top me again? Or the fact that the Bureau’s never going to let me near those case files?” Malcolm glances up as he gives each cuff a little wiggle to test them.

“Both,” Gil says, bending down to tuck the kid in proper, kiss on the forehead and all. “I’ll use your spare key to lock up and get it back to you.”

“Keep it,” Malcolm tells him. “The key. It’ll be good for at least a month until my mother realizes it’s a new lock and threatens to kick me out.”

Gil grabs his coat off the hook hung by the door. His gaze catches on the crayons abandoned by the window as he shrugs into his coat, the drive ahead already feeling long and lonely. Could be this wasn’t the best idea in the long run, but hey, maybe it’ll be good for the both of them in some ways. Maybe this will give him something other than the job to think about when he gets up in the morning. Maybe Malcolm will start second-guessing those dumbass choices he makes when he thinks he’s going to learn something new about the shit that makes it hard for _him_ to sleep.

One way or another, what’s done is done, and the only path is the one forward. He fishes his keys from his pocket. “Get some fucking rest, Bright,” he says, as he heads out, and if he only imagines the soft “Yes, Daddy,” in response, it still leaves him with a little more warmth stoked in that space behind his ribs.

**Author's Note:**

> Read more of my [Prodigal Son fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=Prodigal+Son+%28TV+2019%29&user_id=ponderosa121), or talk to me about this twink getting wrecked on Twitter [@ponderosa121](https://twitter.com/ponderosa121) or on Discord in [Prodigal Son Trash](https://discord.gg/fQaRgBD).


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